In consideration of the Surrealist movement, Aimé Césaire
experienced disalienation “which is the doing away with the
modeling condition of social/individual alienation that is
produced by socio-economic inequalities,” José Rosales,
Of Surrealism & Marxism, posted by “Blind Field Collective,”
December 1, 2016; September 26, 2017 (5).
In consideration of the Surrealist movement, Aimé Césaire
experienced disalienation “which is the doing away with the
modeling condition of social/individual alienation that is
produced by socio-economic inequalities,” José Rosales,
Of Surrealism & Marxism, posted by “Blind Field Collective,”
December 1, 2016; September 26, 2017 (5).
————————
white dis-heritage [1]
I’m constantly questioning what to say to Otherness.
Othering is when a White person (frankly, I’m that White
person) makes an excuse, asks advice, identifies
with Otherness as though he/she completely understands. I don’t know
how Otherness feels. Well, I do, but not like they do — the Others.
I wish I could drop the pretense and just say,
‘Hey, let’s hang. Do you like jazz? How about rock ‘n roll?
Othering seems to crawl in-between, smirk and tell me to walk away.
Here I am trying to write about my struggles having relationships with BIPOC acquaintances
and I don’t even know myself well enough to write this. I’m not perfect.
Does Otherness think I am or am I just imagining this?
Maybe I could ask Otherness … no, no, no, not that.
How about? No, not that either. What if I were to ask…nope.
You’ve heard stories about White people intentionally ridiculing. They yell, Wasp
or, well, you get the idea. They are provoking. White people, I’m speaking to you now.
We have a superiority complex. We need to get over it. We need to stop politicizing
agendas which subjugate and marginalize minorities. We need to stop cycles of Othering.
Guess what White people? We are soon going to be in the minority.
But this shouldn’t be the reason we STOP not recognizing our fragility.
We must understand. The other day, when my new friend Paula saw a piece
of art by … ummm, let’s erase that famous artist’s name — I don’t know what she
thought, but she raised her hand and asked if we could discuss the other half of the work, the half with a Black
servant holding a cachet of flowers on white linen, a gift from an incoming client
of a White working girl, lady of the night, in this case day. Was she feeling trauma, I wondered.
I imagined so when she suddenly stood and walked out of the room. Where was my trauma,
I wondered. I mean, as a Feminist, to see the male gaze reflected in the eyes of a White woman who sells her body
to make a living — how mortifying. The point is, we all have trauma.
We don’t know about each other’s trauma. We don’t know when we are crossing a line. A line
which triggers others in ways, that if we knew (knowing is key), we certainly wouldn’t cross
it. At least, I wouldn’t. Should I have said something about my trauma?
Why didn’t I? Isn’t this more about the fact that I should have defended my BIPOC friend?
It’s as though I put blinders on my emotions. Are the neurons to my brain malformed?
Am I like a bird flying toward a window? If I don’t see it soon enough, well, you know.
Footnotes:
[1]So I ask, what elements of white supremacy are derived from individual and collective ethnicities and how may we reassemble them with the goal of inclusivity when, it seems, society races blindly forward at a million miles a second?